Conquering Venus

By Collin Kelley

A young, American writer, Martin Paige, agrees to chaperone a group of high school seniors on their graduation trip to Paris as a favor to his best friend, teacher Diane Jacobs. Diane hopes Europe will act as a catalyst to lift Martin from his grief following the suicide of his lover, Peter. In Paris, Martin meets a widow, Irène Laureux, still grieving the mysterious death of her husband during the 1968 riots. As Martin begins to fall in love with a student, David McLaren, a terrorist attack on the Metro irrevocably changes all the characters lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sibling Rivalry Press
• Release date: Oct 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781937420550

Book preview

Prologue: The Reflecting Hands

For here there is no place that does not see you.

You must change your life.—Rilke

In his dreams he can remember her name. From the shadowy first glimpses when she was peripheral, on the edge of a crowd or morphing into a friend or family member, to the day the plane lifted off from Memphis Airport bound for London and her face and body finally synchronized in mid-flight slumber. Upon waking, her image remains sharp and clear, but her name slips into the ether of his subconscious.

She is older, but stunning, like a French movie star—her mouth down-turned at the corners, dark eyes and long, blonde hair. She has a place now, too, not just random locations in unrelated dreams, but a balcony over a street. She appears, a palm raised in what seems like greeting, until she begins tracing her life line, a delicate finger circling the pad under her thumb, the mound of Venus. "I don’t know what you mean,—" he says with frustration. She smiles and rests her hands on the railing, their whiteness shocking against the black metal, and on the back of her left hand, between the thumb and index finger, is a tattoo of small interlocking crosses. He knows this marking, knows it like the back of his own hand, because in the summer of 1995 as Martin Page stares at himself in the mirror of his London hotel room, he can see the same tattoo inked into his skin—a South American symbol meaning equal but opposite—and her name is on the tip of his tongue.

1. The Dreaming

Martin sat at a dressing table in the Metropole hotel on London’s Edgware Road. He was twenty-two that year, but looked older. Tiny lines were forming around his eyes, while closer inspection revealed the beginning of a furrow in his brow. His skin was unblemished and pale, like so many blondes, eyes large and blue. Not fat or thin, just in between. When people noticed the tattoo, there was a momentary pause, a summing up of character, a re-assessment. They would notice he wore all black, that his eyes were often hidden behind bangs, that he spoke with a calm, detached voice. But their gaze would eventually flicker back to his left hand. Peter had the same tattoo when he was alive; inked in the same spot on the same day as Martin’s, when they decided they were familiars. At his parents’ insistence, the mortician covered Peter’s tattoo with make-up, so that when his hands were crossed over his heart in the long coffin, it would be as if those dark lines never existed. As if Martin never existed.

Earlier in the evening, Martin went downstairs to the large indoor swimming pool. He lost his way in the maze of hallways, and then emerged into a glass corridor that overlooked the pool below. He saw David McLaren alone in the pool doing laps. David was eighteen, athletic, tan and aware of his looks. When David began his backstrokes, he caught a glimpse of Martin looking down at him and felt a chill pass through him in the warm water. Like the first time they met, like he had suddenly caught his breath. But Martin did not see this moment of panic, for he was in the elevator, filled with both a dread and excitement he had not felt in years. When Martin came into the poolroom, David swam to the edge and smiled up at him.

Why don’t you come in? David asked.

No, we have to be ready for dinner in an hour, Martin said.

Stop playing chaperone. Leave that to Lady Diane. Loosen up.

David climbed out of the pool. The water ran down his lithe body, making his bathing suit cling to his narrow hips. David stood there running his hands through his wet, dark hair. Martin and David stared at each other. They had been in similar situations before, when something unspoken was palpable, a third person whispering, but the words were unclear.

Let me make you as wet as I am, David said opening his arm, water glistening.

Too late for that, Martin thought, sidestepping David, who laughed as he grabbed a towel and walked toward the changing room.

Back in his room, Martin remembered the evening four months ago when Diane Jacobs, his best friend, called and said she had been asked by her principal to fill in as chaperone for a group of students from the high school where she taught English on their graduation trip abroad. We need another chaperone, she said, I can finagle it so you can go. She badgered him into saying yes—it’s cheap and we’ll be there for over three weeks and they swore to God the hotels would be decent—and, after relenting, he went to bed and the woman, whose name he could almost recall, made her first appearance.

Martin sat at the mirror in a trance, and for the third time since he arrived in London, he could see her in the reflection, as if the glass did not exist. There were dark circles around her eyes, highlighted by her pale skin, and she wore her hair pulled back away from her face. The hands, in which she cradled her chin, showed her true age, and there was the tattoo.

There was a knock on the door. Both Martin and the woman in the mirror turned to acknowledge it. For a moment, Martin stared at the door.

I’m coming. Just a second.

Martin stood up and moved toward the door. He took a deep breath and went out into the hallway where Diane, David and the others were waiting.

In the mirror, the woman turned back to look at herself, unsure of what she had heard or where it came from. Her trance broken, yet feeling that something was in motion, the fluidity of time and space. She reached out and put her palm against the mirror. Over her shoulder, the reflection of her own city, its distant cacophony of traffic and voices like a second heartbeat slightly out of sync. There was a name on the tip of her tongue, had been for months, and an image becoming clearer by the moment. She tapped on the glass, intoning the mantra she used in place of the name that only came to her in dreams, sending it like a beacon into the unknown: Paris, Paris, Paris.

Diane Jacobs had met Martin four years earlier at an all-purpose grief counseling workshop for the bereaved, divorced and lonely hearted. She read about the workshop in Memphis’ daily newspaper, The Commercial Appeal, and decided to attend out of morbid curiosity. Diane also thought it would mollify her mother, who called constantly to express concern over her only daughter’s mental and spiritual welfare.

Oh, my God! See a rabbi, her mother screeched. What do you wanna go to a grief counselor for? A divorce is private business, not something you tell everyone. Only a rabbi should know these things.

Mom, you rarely go to synagogue yourself. Why the hell are you pushing it on me?

Don’t curse, Diane.

You didn’t answer the question, Mom.

I go when I need to, that’s all you need to know. I go. It’s your father who doesn’t go.

That’s because he doesn’t want any reminders. You know that. You missed the whole concentration camp experience.

He should be thankful he’s here, with a nice home and a nice wife and a nice daughter, who rarely calls and never visits and should be going to synagogue. Why don’t you find one of those nice teachers to talk to? You need more friends. They have a singles night at synagogue.

Diane felt alienated from the other teachers. They were all prim and proper, dedicated to their profession, with perfect children and husbands. She wanted to put nails through their heads. She half-heartedly tried to befriend one of the teachers, and told her she planned to attend the counseling workshop. The teacher was enthusiastic, telling Diane she might meet her next husband there. Instead she met Martin.

Although Diane was almost twenty years older, she and Martin had an instant bond. They watched impassively as the others poured out their grief in a sterile room at the downtown community center. Then one night Diane laughed out loud as an overweight woman declared her independence from the devil known as chocolate frosting. Diane slapped her hand over her mouth and caught Martin’s eye and he began to laugh as well. Little snickers he couldn’t control, the first time he had laughed in months and months. He put his chin on his chest and tried to breathe deeply, but he could feel Diane’s eyes on him. When he glanced back up, their eyes met and they began laughing so hard they were asked to leave the room.

I knew coming here was a mistake, Martin said once they were on the street outside.

Well, at least you got a laugh at the expense of somebody else’s misery, she said. How often does that opportunity come along?

True.

Besides, that woman up there doesn’t know what misery really is. Her satanic pact with Betty Crocker ranks rather low on my misery meter. I bet you’ve got bigger problems than she has.

I don’t know…maybe, Martin said hesitantly. He wanted to go home, but then she started digging through her purse for cigarettes.

I should give them up, but sometimes you just need to fill your lungs with toxins. She pulled a rumpled pack from her bag but it was empty. Shit.

Martin reached into his pocket and handed her the rest of his pack. Keep it. I’ve gotta go. Nice to meet you.

Oh, I see. I lift your dreary spirits and then you run away.

I just need to go.

So, why were you up there?

Why were you?

Quid pro quo, Dr. Lecter, she said, lighting up. If you’re going home to drink alone, you might as well invite me. Are you even old enough to drink?

I’m eighteen. I live in Germantown with my parents.

Oh, baby, then you definitely don’t want to go home. There’s a diner up the street. Let me buy you coffee and you can tell me your life story.

You do know that I’m gay, right? Martin asked.

What the hell does that mean?

If you’re trying to seduce me, it won’t work.

Diane laughed loudly, choking on the cigarette smoke. You’re young enough to be one of my students. That’s not my bag.

Good to know. Nice to meet you, Diane.

Martin walked down the street, but could feel the woman shadowing him. They walked to the diner and Diane stopped at the door. Martin kept walking. Was it a car wreck, cancer, murder or suicide? she called out to him.

Martin turned to look back at her. What do you want from me?

Just to talk, she said. There was a tone in her voice that Martin wouldn’t hear again for a long time—a hint of desperation. Martin nodded and walked through the open door she offered him.

They began to counsel each other during weekly sessions at the diner and never went back to the grief workshop. Over bad coffee and greasy food, Martin learned Diane was Jewish, divorced, unable to have children and growing to detest her job as a schoolteacher. Diane had come home early one day and found her husband in bed with someone else. She told him on the spot she wanted a divorce and moved out of the house into an apartment the next day. She often liked to imagine the look on her husband’s face as he opened the door and found their home completely empty, save for their marital bed.

Three months after their first meeting, Diane found out Martin was in the hospital after he missed one of their weekly sessions at the diner. She sensed there was more to Martin’s past, but she never pushed for more information. There was something unsaid in Martin’s emotionless recounting of Peter’s suicide. Often, they just talked about theatre and films and books they had read. During their last few meetings, Martin seemed more withdrawn. He was lethargic and unresponsive to any of the sarcastic comments she whipped out regularly to make him laugh. She asked him if he was taking any medication, but he smiled thinly and said, I wish.

You’re not making any plans to join Peter are you? she asked, half jokingly. The look on his face made her pause. Her dormant nurturing instinct kicked in. She had mixed emotions about Martin, most of which she pushed out of her mind. If he were straight, if he wasn’t damaged, she might have seduced him to boost her ego. God knows she could have used it.

She sat in the diner for nearly an hour waiting, a small panic beginning to blossom in her stomach. She went to Martin’s house and his embarrassed mother said he had gone away for a few weeks. The way she said gone away instantly tipped off Diane as to his whereabouts.

Which hospital? Diane asked, and Martin’s mother went scarlet.

He can’t have visitors, other than his family.

Why don’t you do me a favor then, Mrs. Paige? Why don’t you call over there at the loony bin you committed him to and tell them I’m his aunt. Tell them Aunt Diane wants to come and visit her nutty little nephew.

Who are you? Martin’s mother demanded, and shouted back into the house for her husband.

I’m a counselor at the grief workshop, Diane lied. We meet every week, you know. Wasn’t the workshop your idea?

Yes, Mrs. Paige said, flustered, as her husband appeared in the doorway behind his wife. This is the counselor at the grief workshop Martin was attending.

Mr. Paige looked Diane up and down. Damn lotta good she did, he said, and disappeared back in the house.

London’s streets were bustling on the last night before Diane, Martin and the teenagers departed for Paris. Everyone was going home, going to dinner, going to the theatre or cinema.

Diane had a bad feeling about the attention Martin was giving to David, who had been in her English composition class. David played baseball and was captain of the swim team, but her fine-tuned radar indicated there was something not so typical about this jock. She watched them walking together, huddled close in some intense conversation, as the other teens ran ahead toward the Underground station. She came up behind them and tapped Martin on the shoulder.

Run along, Mr. McLaren. The chaperones need to have adult talk. David rolled his eyes at her, winked at Martin and ran ahead to catch up with the others.

You two were practically humping each other. Are you fucking him already? Diane asked as Martin fell into step with her, but he didn’t answer.

Don’t give me the silent treatment, Diane persisted. You hardly know him.

I know him. You know we’ve gone out a few times. Movies and driving around.

Golly-gee, did you park and neck, too? Diane deadpanned.

You’re not funny.

I’m a laugh-riot. Remember the night you met him at the mixer? What did I tell you?

You made some joke about him being Michael Jackson fodder and I should use him as a jack-off fantasy and find someone my own age.

Bingo. You met David when he was still my underage student. Are you trying to get me fired?

He’s an adult now. He can make up his own mind.

Or you can use your super homo powers and make it up for him.

You’re implying that I’m seducing him, which is flattering.

Look, I don’t even want to have this conversation. I don’t want to know anything about it. I’m the oblivious, harried spinster teacher who doesn’t know about the urgings of young boys. Hell, I didn’t even want this gig. If their mealy-mouthed French teacher hadn’t gotten preggers, we wouldn’t even be here.

Is that what you’re going to say in court?

"I hate you so much."

Be happy for me, Diane. I haven’t felt this happy in ages…as you well know. Be supportive.

Diane grabbed his arm and pulled him up short. Don’t do that. Don’t accuse me of not being supportive. Six months ago, you wouldn’t look twice at the guys I introduced you to, now suddenly you’re after one of my kids.

"One of your kids? You don’t even like him. You said he’s a dumb jock."

I never said he was dumb.

You implied it. You got that dismissive tone in your voice.

David is smart, but if he has an inkling of queerness, it’s buried down deep. Do you really want to devote your energy to this?

I’m not devoting energy. We’re in Europe; I’m having fun. If something happens, it happens.

Hey, hey…do not blow that much smoke up my ass. I know you well enough to know that ‘if something happens, it happens’ is a big bunch of malarkey.

Malarkey?

Let me put it in plain English for you, then. You’re after David because he reminds you of Peter.

Martin was momentarily speechless, then turned and walked away. Fuck you, Diane. That was uncalled for.

It was very much called for, she said walking behind him, nipping at his heels like a dog. Tell me one good reason for pursuing David and I’ll shut up.

He does remind me of Peter. Is that wrong? He’s funny and he’s interested in what I have to say. Damn it. How much longer are you going to have me on suicide watch? It’s been…

Okay, Diane said, putting her hands over her ears. Fine. He reminds you of Peter. I think that’s sick on about eight different levels, but you answered the question. Just do me a favor. Be discreet. These kids would love to see me out of a job and homeless. He may be of age, but I’m still culpable.

Martin kissed Diane on the cheek. Always thinking of yourself.

The teenagers ran into the entrance of the Underground, some trying to jump over the turnstiles. This isn’t New York, Diane yelled. We pay to ride the subway. They were normal teenagers, wild with being away from their parents, wanting to go to pubs, wanting to go to Soho and look at the freaks.

You are the freaks, Diane told them.

The bane of Diane’s existence was a student named Beth. Very gothic, dyed black hair, too much white makeup, nose ring. I want to get a tattoo, she said sullenly, as they waited in line.

And why would you want to do that, dear? You’re such a lovely girl. Diane rolled her eyes at Martin.

My mom said it was okay.

I’ve got three words for you: dirty foreign needles.

You’re so xenophobic, Ms. Jacobs, Beth said as she slouched away.

Get hepatitis and die then, Diane called after her.

I will! Beth shouted back. And it’s not the subway. It’s called the Tube.

Whatever. Fucking little ghoul.

On the escalator down to the platform, David was standing so close to Martin that their hands brushed together. The Underground station echoed with the voices of passengers and the roar of the trains. Martin allowed himself the small thrill of pressing his hand against David’s. It would be an accident, too many people on the escalator. Martin froze when David took his hand. He looked at David, who was in his own little world.

I didn’t know we were at the hand-holding stage yet, Martin whispered in his ear, trying to make a joke of it, the same way David always played off his little come-ons. But David didn’t react the way Martin expected, never did.

That’s so gay, David laughed nervously, snatched his hand away, balled it into a fist and punched Martin on the arm hard.

Martin had never told David about Peter, had sidestepped questions about the past and the tattoo on his hand, which David thought was cool in a prison sort of way. One night before they left for Europe, David had come and picked him up in his Jeep, and they drove for over an hour, not speaking, the radio turned down to a low hum.

Thanks, man, David had said as he dropped Martin off at his apartment. I just needed to get out and drive and think about some stuff, but I didn’t want to be alone. You know.

Martin had smiled and nodded, but he didn’t know, not really. David was a moody boy, and that drew Martin like a moth to flame. Just like it had drawn him to Peter.

There was a commotion on the platform, someone shouting, but Martin wasn’t paying any attention. He was looking at David again, searching for an answer in the boy’s unfathomable gaze. They were almost at the bottom of the escalator when Martin heard the word bomb.

In an instant, Martin and David were being swept back up the escalator by a crush of bodies. A computerized voice announced evacuation. Martin’s feet slipped on the escalator steps, which were going in the wrong direction. Someone at the bottom hit the emergency stop, the entire machine lurched, and everyone on it fell forward screaming. David was on Martin’s back, trying to help him up. Somewhere behind him, Martin heard Diane calling his name.

David had Martin around the waist, pulled him up and back against him. Even in the chaos, Martin wanted to go weak in his arms but David was urging him up the stairs. Martin could feel the weight of the people behind them.

At the top of the escalator, David guided Martin toward the exit where people were streaming out like ants. There was the sound of sirens converging on the site. A large man pushed David and Martin out of the way, almost making them fall, but David pulled Martin close to him.

Are you all right? David asked, his eyes fixed on Martin.

Martin nodded. David reached up and pushed the hair out of Martin’s face, then pulled his hand away. He had gotten too close. Checked himself emotionally.

I’m sorry to break up this tender moment, but let’s get the hell out of here, Diane said as she ran past them.

David stepped back, looking at Diane then back to Martin. For a moment, Martin saw the insecurity, the uncertainty.

They wound up eating at a McDonald’s across from the hotel. Diane confined the students to their rooms, which was an unpopular decision. Martin heard some of the teens sneaking away in the night. He had already undressed for bed when there was a knock at the door. Diane wanted him to go downstairs to the bar for a drink. I need to take the edge off. Get dressed and come down, she said.

David, whose room was just two doors down from Martin’s, stepped into the hallway and wanted to know what was going on. He was shirtless and wore a pair of sweatpants low on his hips.

We’re going downstairs for a drink, Martin said, amazed that David had not slipped away with the others.

Cool. Hold up and I’ll come with, David said as he disappeared back into his room.

He does like to show off that bod, Diane said. Maybe I should get drunk and make a pass at him and see what happens.

That would certainly get your teaching license revoked.

In the bar, David downed a succession of screwdrivers until his head was lolling around on his neck. A bus was picking them up at eight the next morning and taking them to Waterloo Station to catch the train to Paris, Diane reminded them.

Don’t get drunk, she admonished David. You’ll be too hung over and I’ll leave your ass here without any hesitation.

David giggled and slapped his hand over his mouth, eyes darting between Diane and Martin.

How many of those have you had?

I lost count, David slurred.

Martin was working steadily on his fourth drink, waiting to feel the slight dizziness that always overtook him when drunkenness was setting in. I still have feeling in ninety percent of my body. They must be watering them down.

I’m just waiting for that nice warm feeling to overtake me so I can go to sleep, Diane said, snuggling down into the plush chair.

You know what they say about single women who drink alone, Martin said, as David began to snore. He was lying face down on the couch, drool running out of the corner of his

Reviews for Conquering Venus

[jasonpettus · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally.)As I've said here many times before, I believe that for a novel to be a truly great one, it must successfully combine three essential elements -- it must have an exciting and logical plot, populated by realistic and compelling characters, written in a competent and unique style. But of course the irony of this is that these three elements aren't even slightly equal when it comes to importance; that for a novel merely to be readable, all it really requires is a reasonable storyline and a lack of grammatical errors, and only then does one need to worry about adding intriguing and complex characters to the mix. (In fact, as those who have done their homework know, the emphasis on character development came rather late in the history of the novel, mostly the result of the academic community getting more and more involved with the format starting in the early 20th century, and is actually the issue that most informs the debate between so-called "mainstream" fiction versus "genre" literature; the latter is accused of concentrating too much on plot to the detriment of character, while the former is accused of the exact opposite.) And thus is the literary world filled with a plethora of novels by beginning authors that least aren't terrible, in that they've at least conquered the challenges of the three-act story and "proper English;" but neither are they truly compelling, because of the lack of emphasis on truly compelling characters, that complicated and oh-so-elusive detail that has been plaguing writers for centuries.Take for example the new Conquering Venus, the small-press novel debut of multiple Pushcart nominee Collin Kelley, a past nominee as well of the prestigious Lambda gay literary award for his popular poetry. Because the fact is that the story fueling this book is a pretty great one indeed, a smart and original idea that made me excited to read it -- it's the story of two youngish Memphis hipsters who are hired to escort a group of high-schoolers on their senior trip to Paris, one of whom is a gay man only in his early twenties himself and already a widow (because of his previous partner committing suicide), and who slowly starts falling in love with one of the high-schoolers he's in charge of, through a series of intense and sexually charged situations there in that most romantic of all European cities. And in the meanwhile, this man also ends up befriending a sixty-something female shut-in ingenue who lives across the street from the hotel where the group is staying, a childhood Nazi survivor and fellow widow whose politically radical husband was killed during the student riots there of 1968, who just so happens to have the same exact tattoo as the American located at the same exact part of the body (an "everlasting love" symbol at the base of their thumbs, both of which were originally done in conjunction with their now-dead partners), the two of whom have also been having a series of magical-realism dreams about the other in the weeks leading up to the trip, and who become convinced that they are fated to help each other work through their respective loss and pain.And that's the main thing I want to emphasize today, that when it comes to all that, Kelley does quite a nice job, turning in a tidy story that was obviously well thought out and thoroughly researched; not only does it have a tight internal logic but also presents the city in a highly realistic and evocative way, and with lots of real-feeling details about the calamitous days there in the late '60s that this youngish author obviously couldn't have directly experienced himself. And that's why Conquering Venus gets at least a decent score today, and a full write-up instead of a one-paragraph brushoff, because it deserves such a thing, and it deserves to find the audience who will enjoy this book just for these elements alone. So what a disappointment, then, to read through the novel and realize that it's the characters themselves who are wildly inconsistent, changing profoundly in their nature from scene to scene depending on what Kelley specifically needs to have happen in that scene for his elaborate storyline to hold together; it's what stops this merely okay novel from being a truly great one, a disappointment even more bitter than normal because of him otherwise coming so close to getting everything so right.Take for example the character Diane, the middle-aged teacher who is the catalyst behind the entire trip, and who is the one to eventually invite her gay non-teaching friend Martin along to be her co-escort: because as she exists within Conquering Venus, she is sometimes seen as a with-it urban Jew who of course has young gay friends and who of course would be thought of as the perfect escort for a bunch of rowdy teens on a trip to the EU, while at other times she comes off as a judgmental, schoolmarmish shrew, reacting like a xenophobic grandmother to the very idea of one of the students getting a tongue-piercing during the trip. Like I said, this is one of the intermediate lessons of novel-writing, learned only after first mastering the basics but still as important as anything else; that for a novel to be truly great, an author must first create a series of airtight characters with an unbreakable consistency to their behavior and ethics, and only then create a compelling three-act story that logically fits around these consistent characters, with the plot itself needing to be changed when clashing with the natural action any particular person in it would take in any particular situation, not the other way around. And unfortunately, this is a problem found again and again throughout the entire manuscript, of characters reacting to situations in radically different ways based on what needs to happen at that particular moment in order for Kelley's plot to hold together -- just to cite one more example, the fact that our ingenue Irene is so agoraphobic that she literally passes out when walking out the front door of her building, yet has absolutely no problem lounging around for hours on her open-roofed balcony thirty feet directly above this front door, an element of the story absolutely necessary under Kelley's plotting in order for her and Martin to meet in the first place.And then this isn't even taking into consideration the much bigger problem with these characters, which is that I didn't find a single one of them to ultimately be sympathetic; because when all is said and done, of the three main characters who make up this book, one is essentially a horrible little monster to virtually every person she meets, another is constantly trying to get a series of manual laborers fired for not catering to her every mentally-imbalanced whim, while the third apparently sees no problem with aggressively pursuing a gay sexual relationship with a confused closeted jailbait alcoholic teenager, an aspect that will be even more troubling to others depending on who they are. And again, this is not to say that a novel needs to be populated with selfless heroes in order to be a success, nor that characters aren't allowed to make mistakes or even sometimes come across as villainous; but in order for a traditional three-act story to work (and make no mistake, this is a traditional three-act story), we need to be able to at least root for the characters at the center of it all, at least not actively despise them and to be cheering for their failure. And unfortunately, this is exactly where I found myself by the end of Conquering Venus, actively hoping that Martin would just finally leave that poor wino closeted kid alone already, and wondering why he would be friends with such an irredeemable c-nt like Diane in the first place.It's for all these reasons that today Conquering Venus gets only a limited recommendation from me; like I said, there's definitely an audience out there who will like this quite a bit, precisely as mentioned because a novel doesn't need to master characterization in order to be at least okay, only storyline and grammar which this one does, although those expecting more from their full-length fiction will unfortunately be disappointed. In any case, it is for sure a better-than-normal first novel, one that Kelley should be proud of for the things it gets right; now it's time for him to hunker down and work on the complicated advanced issues that come with the novel-writing process, before turning in his second.Out of 10: 7.9